Shafts of sunlight pierced the russet canopy overhead, intermittently banishing shadows here and encouraging others there as dusk began to settle on the old Nauvoo Pioneer Cemetery. My husband, Jim, silently took my hand as we stepped over the chain that barred the narrow dirt road leading to the cemetery from motorized intrusion. The road -- merely a path now -- curved upward over the brow of a small hill before vanishing among brittle Indian summer grasses and a mosaic of fallen leaves, punctuated occasionally by the frail and crumbling remains of pioneer headstones.
My thoughts turned inward as we moved up the gentle incline. "You're a Terry and a Gilby," I remembered hearing my father say. Confused at first by the statement, I later discovered that he meant my temperament resembled that of my first and second great-grandmothers, Mary Gilby and Elizabeth Terry. That small, seemingly insignificant observation had triggered a response in me which had eventually brought me to this moment -- the culmination of a promise made nearly a year earlier.
Jim stopped as we reached the crest of the hill, his hesitation momentarily interrupting my thoughts. The cemetery lay before us bathed in the glow of the rapidly setting sun. I broke away and dropped to the ground to examine the name etched so faintly on the headstone nearest my feet. "Laura Iowa Loomis," it read. "February 22, 1844 - August 22, 1845." My mother-heart skipped a beat at that . . . so young.
Decades of neglect by all but the elements had wrought a natural beauty here which far surpassed that of the manicured lawns and fenced and ordered plots of ordinary cemeteries. Headstones lay half-buried under layers of decaying foliage, or stood like sentinels, precariously balanced as though defying gravity.
As I knelt, I felt Jim's hand touch my shoulder. Glancing downward, I noticed our shadow lengthening almost imperceptibly in the gathering twilight. "We haven't much time," I murmured. "We'd better look separately or we'll never find it before dark."
"Do you really expect to find a marker?" he questioned.
"Not really," I sighed. "They were so poor, and there was so little time before they were forced to leave. I know we'll find the spot, though. I feel it strongly, now that we're really here." He smiled at me then, his tiny, somewhat indulgent smile that said, “I understand, sweetheart, and I'll help in any way I can.”
We spent the next few minutes rapidly moving from stone to stone, systematically examining every corner of the cemetery. As we searched, my mind turned once again to the promise.
Shortly after my father's observation, for reasons still unknown to me, I felt myself drawn to one of these two women in particular, my Great-Great Grandma Terry. I began to search for information about her, both to know her better and, perhaps, to discover more about my own identity as well. In answer to one of my queries for information, a relative sent me a copy of Grandma's journal. In reading t he intimate details of her life which she recorded on its' pages, a profound spiritual bond soon developed between us. I quickly came to love and revere this woman whom I had never met.
It was also in perusing the pages of this journal that I discovered the discrepancy. My genealogical research on the Terry line had indicated that Elizabeth 's first child, Rachel, had been born and buried in Council Bluffs, Iowa, at Winter Quarters. Yet, as I studied the pages of her journal, I found Grandma had written about the child's birth on December 1, 1845, and of her death from exposure three months later. Both events had occurred in the rude wooden shack in Nauvoo which was all the family had to call home. According to her record, Grandma had buried her daughter in the burying ground, three miles east of the Nauvoo Temple .
The discrepancy between Grandma's account and the genealogical records was one I couldn't ignore. Thus, I had spent many hours in further research, trying to unearth even one shred of physical evidence to confirm Grandma's record. I had found none.
Rachel's death on March 5, 1846, just one month after the first wagon left the "City Beautiful" for the barren Salt Lake Valley, had come at a difficult time for record keeping in Nauvoo. In spite of this, I still knew deeply within me that Grandma's account was true. A mother would know where she had borne and buried her first child! It was then that I had made the promise to Grandma to find Rachel's grave and to place a marker there if one had never been erected.
Drifting back to the present, I scanned the one remaining stone on my side of the cemetery. "Nothing here," I sighed. I looked over at Jim, and he shook his head, indicating his search had been futile as well. Just as I had suspected, there would be no tangible evidence of little Rachel's resting place.
I had felt from the beginning that this must be a search of the spirit, merely hoping, against all logic, for some physical memorial. I closed my eyes and hugged my arms tightly about me as I silently pleaded; Dear Father, only you know how much this means to me. Please guide me now. Then feeling my Grandma's spirit, I whispered, "Grandma. . . I know you're here. . . . Help me to find your child."
I opened my eyes and slowly moved forward, my steps leading away from the center of the cemetery, down a small slope toward a hollow in the Northwest corner. As I walked, I felt a warmth begin in my chest and flow down my entire body. The feeling intensified almost to the point of actual pain as I drew nearer to the wooded hollow now glowing luminously in the evening half-light. My throat tightened, and my heart leaped as spirit whispered to spirit.
Yet, as I stood there with exquisite joy flooding into every corner of my soul, my mind questioned the truth my senses had revealed. Determined to quell this feeling of uncertainty, I moved up and out of the hollow toward the fence which formed the western border of the cemetery, the need to validate the experience of the last few moments driving me forward.
As I walked, the spirit drained from me until, standing by the fence, I felt a great, cold void where a burning warmth had stirred only moments before. Longing to recapture that warmth, I slowly retraced my steps, gradually feeling once again the joy of spiritual communication as a surge of emotion welled up within me until it took my breath away and threatened to burst the walls of my chest.
Still uncertain, my faith required a further test. I walked one more time in the opposite direction -- two, four, then six yards from the emotionally charged area. Again, the spirit ebbed from my body, only to flow freely once more when I turned and calmly . . . purposefully walked back to the center of the hollow.
My doubts banished, I stood with tears of gratitude streaming unheeded down my face as wave after wave of emotion engulfed me. "Thank you, Father," I sobbed, in awe of the magnitude of the gift I had been given. My search was over, I gazed in wonder around the area, knowing that somewhere, very close to where I stood, my beloved Grandma had laid the still, small body of her infant daughter in a cold, unmarked grave -- a grave she would visit for the last time only a few weeks later before marching westward with the body of the Saints.
"Oh, Grandma," I whispered through my tears. Her spirit was so tangible I felt I could touch her. My thoughts reached out to her. Would she rest more peacefully now with the knowledge that another also kept a vigil here in her heart?
A scripture flashed through my mind: "And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers." Was this revelation my personal fulfillment of Malachi's prophecy?
As I pondered, I looked up to find my husband standing outside the circle of my private communion, hesitant to interrupt my thoughts. I gestured an invitation with my hand. "It's here," I said, a sob catching in my throat. "I can feel it." He came to me, and I collapsed in his arms, weeping uncontrollably. I buried my face in his coat, all the tension and anticipation pouring out of my body in a great rush of joy and relief.
I had found little Rachel, Grandma's precious daughter. My promise was fulfilled. Later I would try to place a physical marker here, but for now I was content to mark it in my heart.
NOTE: At the time I made this pilgrimage, the Old Nauvoo Burial Ground still belonged to the Reorganized Church of Latter-Day Saints. Several years later, I heard that the Church had exchanged some pieces of land with the Reorganized Church and had thus been able to obtain the cemetery. I called the person in charge of the exchange, Elder Loren C. Dunn, the current Area Authority over Nauvoo. I explained my experience and asked if it would be possible to place a marker in the cemetery over Rachel's grave. He explained that the Church would only be replacing existing headstones. Disappointed, I sent him a copy of "The Promise," hoping it might encourage reconsideration of my request. Imagine my surprise the following November when I received a package in the mail from him containing an article from The Church News about the dedication of the newly restored Old Nauvoo Burial Ground and a copy of his talk from the dedication ceremony on October 7, 1989. The article indicated that a heroic-sized monument by Utah sculptor Dee Jay Bawden, depicting a family burying a loved one, would soon be placed at the cemetery.
The following is an excerpt from Elder Dunn's talk at that dedication:
“Elder Dunn recounted the experience of early Nauvoo resident Elizabeth Terry, and her newborn daughter, Rachel. While her husband was away, she and the baby were both ill. They were left alone in their open house after the toll of illness throughout the community depleted the ranks of those who would have helped.
"I tended her till 4 o'clock, then I fell asleep," she wrote in her journal. "When I awoke at 6 o'clock, she was dead. I trembled so that I could hardly stand. But I wrapped her in a blanket and took her to Father's to see if she was really dead. [The journal later records the cause of death was exposure.] Brother Huntington buried her in the burying ground three miles north20of the temple."
Chrys Reynolds of Layton, Utah, a great-granddaughter of Elizabeth Terry, recently searched the burial ground for the grave of little Rachel. "As she walked, she prayed for guidance to find what she was looking for," related Elder Dunn. "She said that "I gazed in wonder in the area, knowing that somewhere very close to where I stood, my beloved grandmother had laid the still, small body of her infant daughter in a cold, unmarked grave, a grave she would visit for the last time only a few weeks later, before marching west.' "
Elder Dunn explained that the planned heroic-sized monument "will be a marker Rachel never had, as well as the other boys and girls and men and women that are buried here with loving hands and heavy hearts."
Needless to say, I was overwhelmed at the way in which the Lord had touched Elder Dunn's heart to fulfill the promise I had made to Elizabeth, and no child could have had a more fitting and lovely monument to mark the place in which her tiny mortal remains were laid than little Rachel now has."
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